Consent

He didn't even blink when I asked

for the cables. He just handed them over,

the heavy, oily weight of them

dropping into my open palms.

The rubber is cold and smells of grease.

The coils are black snakes resting

against the dirty slush of the drive.

I am sitting in the driver’s seat now.

The hood is propped open like a jaw.

The sleet is clicking against the roof

and I don't know how to turn the key

without feeling like a thief.